


Privacy And Pancakes

by laschatzi



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Caught in the Act, F/M, Pancakes, cockblocked
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-20 09:12:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14257701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laschatzi/pseuds/laschatzi
Summary: You should think Snow has learned not to use her spare key to Emma and Killian's house. Well, she hasn't. And this time, she has brought her husband.





	Privacy And Pancakes

“That was quite the closure for our honeymoon,” Emma sighs as she descends the gangplank, Killian right on her heels.

“A bit of a storm,” he agrees and adds smoothly, “but I've weathered worse.”

“Showoff,” she huffs and stumbles for a second when she steps on the dock, having to adjust to being on firm ground again for the first time after a ten days' sailing trip. In was indeed their – slightly belated – honeymoon, and they're home half a day early, due to the storm that pushed them forward.

Killian grabs her elbow to steady her. “Admit it,” he chuckles in a low voice, “I'm a hell of a Captain.”

She can't help but lean into his touch when he uses her momentary unsteadiness as an excuse to press himself to her. “You are,” she concedes and turns her head to look at him. “I'll poof us right home if you're okay with it?”

He nods with a smile – as eager to get home as she is – and she transports them to their house in a whirl of magic. She brings them right outside their door and not directly inside, because she enjoys the ritual of _coming home_ to their own place so much: walking up the stairs, unlocking the door and going inside, taking off their boots and lining them up on the mat behind the door. _Normal_ things, like _normal_ couples. They haven't had much time yet to truly enjoy their quiet domestic moments, so none of it is routine so far, and every day is a new chapter in the adventure of True Love.

“Go ahead,” she tells him and motions to the stairs, “I'll get us some cocoa to warm us up. I'll be with you in a minute.”

“I'll be waiting,” he replies and wiggles his eyebrows, accompanied by a grin that lets pleasurable warmth spread in her belly and promises her their honeymoon isn't over yet. She can't help but lick her lips and turns towards the kitchen while he sneaks up the hardwood stairs on his socked feet.

Emma makes quick work of heating up the milk and adding the cocoa; before topping it with whipped cream and cinnamon, she pours a healthy amount of rum into it from the bottle she keeps in one of the kitchen cabinets. She hums absentmindedly – something she _never_ used to do – and when she notices, she smiles to herself and shakes her head a little. That's probably the most amazing thing: the joy brought to her simply by Killian's presence in their home. She doesn't even have to see him, the knowledge is already enough. In fact, she's noticed that whenever she's home alone and hears his key in the front door, her lips pull into a smile all by themselves.

For a moment, she's contemplating calling her parents and telling them they're already back, but then she decides against it. How foolish would that be, depriving herself of one more precious half day of no one knowing they're around, of having _them_ to themselves. She risks a quick glance into the fridge and decides they'll probably have to order in, but that's something they can decide about later.

She's still smiling as she's hurrying up the stairs embarrassingly fast, but then again, she doesn't care. Her father was right: life's made up of moments, and she simply doesn't want to miss a single one of them – she's already missed enough. When she enters the bedroom, she finds it empty and frowns.

“Killian?” she calls and puts the two steaming mugs on her dressing table.

“Here, love,” comes the reply from the bathroom, and her smile widens. Joining Killian under the hot spray of the shower whenever she feels like it, that's one of the perks of living together she has come to appreciate a lot. If she can talk him into having a shower, but that's never a problem, really.

The butterflies in her belly hum excitedly as she opens the bathroom door only to break into a confused buzz when she immediately notices that the shower stall is empty. A second later she spots her pirate husband in their claw-footed bathtub, peeking at her over a heap of creamy white foam, his elbows casually resting on the edge. Before today, she's seen him only maybe once or twice in the bathtub, whereas he has developed a fierce passion for abundant showers. She recalls fondly how he used to call the shower _rain bath_ when he still had problems getting his 21 st Century vocabulary together.

In spite of his nonchalant stance, he's looking a bit sheepish right now, and Emma flashes him an amused grin. “What are you doing there?”

“Why, taking a bath, of course,” he replies, in what seems to be a slightly offended voice, “as I do all the time.”

She crosses her arms and tilts her head, narrowing her eyes. “No, you _shower_ all the time,” she corrects him, “and it's not even _that_ chilly outside. Why the bath?” She recalls that he took one some time ago, on one of the rare occasions he got a really bad cold, and she adds, “Are you sick or something?”

“Nonsense,” he waves her off, “I was just in the mood for a good, old-fashioned bath, that's all.” His tone is a little defensive now... almost _too_ defensive.

Then she thinks back to the storm they've had to weather today – it has taken a physical toll on her, too, she can feel it in her aching muscles – , and a suspicion dawns on her. “You had to work really hard to get the ship safely home today,” she remarks casually.

“Naught I haven't done before,” he waves her off almost grumpily and runs his wet hand through his hair, trying to distract her, but she remains focused.

“I'm sure you have,” she nods with a cheeky grin, takes three steps forward and hunkers down in front of the tub, leaning her forearms on the edge. “Achy bones, old man?”

He raises his eyebrows in that _ah-so-you-want-to-play?-_ manner. “Sore muscles,” he corrects pointedly, “and those have _nothing_ to do with age. They're due to,” he runs his tongue along the inside of his teeth, “ _hard_ labor.”

She will never understand how he does it, create innuendos out of nothing, with innocent words twisted by his wicked voice, caressed by his sinful tongue and his devilish expression. If he aims at it, he can make the temperature in a room rise to scorching degrees only by talking about nautical techniques, she's witnessed it. She's _felt_ it. Right now, she feels a pleasant shiver running down her spine and can't help but bite her smiling lip. “Hard labor, huh?” she echoes a little lamely, knowing she can leave it up to him to lead her through the dance of seduction this is undoubtedly turning into.

“Aye.” He tilts his head and leans forward, his nose almost touching hers as little clouds of steam rise from the tub when he moves. “Get in here and I'll show you some of it, Mrs. Jones.”

* * *

 

“Why don't we just invite them over for dinner?” David grumbles, his eyes firmly fixed on the road ahead as he drives his pickup towards the house of his daughter and son-in-law.

Snow sighs beside him. “David. Technically, they're still on their honeymoon. They might want their privacy.”

He grips the wheel a little harder. “What for?” he snaps. “They've been...” he wrinkles his nose in disgust, “ _private_ for ten days.”

Snow giggles, knowing exactly that any hint at Emma's and Killian's marital bliss is still a red rag to him, even if he's completely happy with their marriage. “I know you missed your mate,” she teases him, “but–”

“ _What?!”_

She puts a soothing hand on David's arm. “We'll invite them over tomorrow, okay?”

“Whatever you say,” he mumbles.

They park their car right behind Emma's yellow bug, the fact that it's there not raising any suspicion. When they departed, David and Snow had taken them to the docks with their baggage, and when they'll get back, Emma can simply poof them home. David opens the passenger's door and takes the casserole his wife insisted on making for the travelers.

Snow uses the key Emma gave them for emergencies, and he hands her the casserole before going to take a quick look around the house and in the garden to see if everything's okay and the recent storm hasn't caused any damage. They aren't worried for Emma and Killian; they have complete faith in their son-in-law's sailing skills.

Snow takes the casserole into the kitchen to stow it away in the fridge, when she suddenly hears a faint noise. Stopping mid-move, she listens closely and frowns. Then there's the sound again, something she can't quite define, like a dull thud followed by a light tone, almost like... a voice? Her first thought is that some animal maybe snuck into the house, which would be the normal thing to suspect in such a situation... but then again, this is Storybrooke, home of magic and fairytale characters, and when has anything _ever_ been normal here? She can't think of any danger lurking around these days, but to always be vigilant is something that has been ingrained in her very being during her bandit days when death could always be waiting behind the next tree. Carefully, she places the casserole on the kitchen counter, snatches a knife from the knife block and sneaks out of the kitchen and up the stairs without waiting for David who's obviously still in the garden.

Following the muffled noises, Snow tiptoes along the corridor and through the open door at its end, leading into the master bedroom. She quickly scans the room and finds it empty; the two mugs with cooled cocoa on the dressing table escape her attention. There are undefinable sounds again, definitely from behind the closed bathroom door, and now she hears what's clearly the sound of splashing water.

Without thinking further, Snow grasps the knife tightly in her right hand and reaches for the doorknob with her left. To take advantage of the momentum of surprise, she turns it very slowly, then throws the door open and bursts into the room.

“Who the hell is... _oh._ ” She stands rooted to the spot, the words dying on her lips, when she sees Emma in the middle of the bathtub in what looks a bit like a weird position, peeking at her over a mountain of white foam, face bewildered, hands instinctively raised to defend herself. The floor in front of the tub is precariously wet where the soapy water has obviously been sloshed around.

“Mom?!” Emma gasps in disbelief, shock evident on her face, and in the next second another face emerges from the foam and blue eyes are staring at her, not less shocked. Although it isn't, Killian's hair looks raven black, wet and plastered to his head like that.

He's obviously at a loss for words, something that doesn't happen very often, and Snow processes within the blink of an eye what's been going on here. _“Oh,”_ she repeats slowly and a little sheepishly, a dreadful feeling of _déjà-vû_ settling in her belly.

Killian tries to keep the situation ridiculously civil and tilts his head in his usual greeting, as if she hadn't just walked in on him being naked in a bubble bath with her daughter, about to do – _or already doing_ – God knows what. “Milady,” he murmurs, sounding a little short of breath, and a wet hand comes up to scratch behind his ear.

“Why are you here, Mom?” Emma sputters, and although she looks still mortified, the tension seems to dissolve the tiniest bit, and Snow waves her hand apologetically. “I... we were just...”

“ _We?”_ Emma echoes in an alarmed voice. “Is Dad–“

“Snow?” comes a smooth, slightly worried baritone from behind, “Where...”

Emma's eyes pop open even wider while her mother puts her hand over her mouth and makes an _oops!_ face. Killian throws his head back and rolls his eyes with a groan, “Wonderful.”

Before Snow can pull back and close the bathroom door, David peeks around the corner. “There you are!” he comments, and a second later, when he's soaked up the scenery, his pale blue eyes are as wide and horrified as his daughter's.

“Dad,” she sighs in defeat and closes her eyes, sinking a little deeper and trying to disappear into the void, or at least into the foam.

“What's going _on_ here?!” David blurts out, and Snow can barely suppress a giggle, guiltily appreciating the involuntary humor of the situation.

Killian has enough now, rubs his hand over his face wearily and mutters under his breath, “Apparently, not much.”

His remark wakes Emma from her paralysis. Her head snaps up, and even though she feels mortified and tries to avoid looking at her father, her voice is firm as she urges, “Would you mind?”

“Oh! Of course!” Snow nods eagerly and ushers David back by pushing at his chest with her shoulder. She doesn't even have to look at him to be able to guess the grim set of his jaw. He stands there like a rock, and she pushes a little harder, until he finally retreats. Feeling sorry for Emma, she tries to soothe her with a wave of her hand in the vague direction of the stairs. “We'll just...”

“We'll be with you in a minute,” Emma sighs, and Snow waves almost dismissively at her.

“No need to hurry!” she assures, and, already pulling the door close behind her, quickly adds over her shoulder, “Take all the time you need!”

“Mom!” Emma moans, _“really?!”_ but the bathroom door is already shut.

Killian grins to himself, because he didn't fail to notice the only ever-so-slightly amused undertone in Snow's voice. Again, she wasn't able to hide her bandit streak, in spite of her royal origin. He could have _sworn_ he saw a bit of devilish amusement lurking in the corners of her green eyes. There's a reason he always admired his mother-in-law from the start.

Slowly, Emma turns around to face him, her face scrunched like she's in pain – and she kind of _is_ (part of him is, too, but _that's_ a completely different pain). “This is awful,” she complains.

He tilts his head. “It could have been worse, love,” he comments almost nonchalantly, hoping to calm her nerves.

She stares at him in disbelief. _“Worse?!”_ she hisses. “My parents just _walked in_ on us while we were...” She interrupts herself and squeezes her eyes shut for a second. When she looks at him again, she shakes her head. “What could possibly have been _worse_?” she asks. A rhetorical question, but Killian has an answer, like most times.

“Well, they could have waited two minutes longer,” he replies dryly, his eyebrow twitching as he continues, “and walked in when things got _really_ interesting.” That reminds him of the opportunity that just got lost, and his momentary amusement is dampened by his frustration.

Emma makes a gagging noise. “Oh please, just the thought makes me sick.” She shakes her head in disbelief that this has happened _again_ , just worse this time, and sighs, “Let's get out.”

Killian tilts his head in regret. “So much _potential_ wasted.”

She leans forward, sloshing a little more water on the floor, and presses a kiss on the freckle underneath his right earlobe. “Tuck it away for later,” she breathes, a promise to him (and to herself) in her husky voice.

He groans in complaint, “I'm not sure that's physically possible.”

Emma rolls her eyes. “You will survive, and so will your... _potential_.”

Ten minutes (and a rather cold shower) later they descend the stairs and head for the kitchen where they suppose Snow and David are waiting for them. Emma has calmed down a little, and even though she isn't looking forward to facing her parents and having the awkwardness bubble all up again, she's determined to get it over with as gracefully as possible and then just forget that this incident ever happened. She isn't so sure about her husband, though; Killian's penchant for sarcasm paired with her father's temperament could make for an explosive moment.

Before they enter the kitchen, she holds him back with her hand on his hook. “Are you okay?”

He lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Bloody _fantastic_.”

That doesn't really calm her nerves. “Don't be too hard on them,” she pleads.

Killian gives her a pointed look from under his raised eyebrows. “Your choice of words is not very helpful, Swan.”

He strides into the kitchen before she can reply anything, and with a nervous sigh and eye roll she follows. David and Snow who have been sitting at the kitchen table practically jump to their feet simultaneously, looking a little sheepishly – although, she notices with alarm, David looks almost more grumpy than sheepish.

Snow speaks up without further preliminaries. “Killian, Emma,” she wrings her hands and then raises them apologetically, “We're _so_ sorry that this happened... _again_.”

David's face falls, and he turns to face his wife with wide eyes when he hears the word _again_.

A muscle in Killian's jaw ticks, and he tilts his head, deliberately keeping all annoyance out of his voice, and really, he has calmed down, for he knows there surely wasn't any bad intention behind his parents-in-law's barging in. “There wasn't any harm done,” he says generously, and Emma looks at him with a grateful, relieved smile.

The way David silently sways his head indicates that _he_ hasn't yet decided if he's harmed for life or not; the sight of his daughter and her pirate husband naked in a bathtub anyway isn't something he _ever_ wants to experience again, even if thankfully there wasn't much to see, really.

“We surely wouldn't have used the key if we'd known you were home,” Snow affirms and adds hastily, “I mean, of course, I didn't mean we'd use the keys to get into your house during your _absence_ , unless it was an emergency...” She licks her lips a little nervously, and her eyes dart to and fro between Emma and Killian.

The latter raises his eyebrows. “I believe that's _exactly_ what you did, Milady?” he replies, ironic amusement evident in his eyes when he revels in the former bandit's predicament (because it serves her bloody well), while Emma shoots him a suspicious glance.

“ _No!”_ Snow exclaims and, when his eyebrows rise even higher, adds with a sheepish head shake, “I mean, _yes_ , but...” She stumbles over her own words and draws a deep breath. “Look,” she starts again when she seems to have recollected her wits, “we didn't expect you back before tonight. I thought you wouldn't be in the mood to cook or go out, so I brought you this.” She picks up the glass casserole dish with transparent lid she has deposited on the kitchen counter and places it in the middle of the table.

Emma is secretly touched by the homely gesture and smiles at her mother while Killian eyes the casserole suspiciously. “Lasagna?” he asks, a skeptical eyebrow ticking up.

“Chicken parm,” Snow replies in an almost defensive tone.

“That's really sweet of you, Mom,” Emma says while Killian continues to scrutinize the casserole pensively. “We came back earlier than we intended because we had a storm in our back pushing us forward.”

“Anyway,” David throws in a little stiffly, speaking for the first time since they got downstairs, “next time we'll make sure we knock before we use the key.” And, directed at Snow, “Let's leave them to their...” He lets his voice trail off while he waves his hand vaguely in their direction, crinkling his nose in barely veiled disgust. He just can't bring himself to say the word _privacy_.

“Where are you going?” Killian interrupts unexpectedly.

“Well, home?” David replies with a frown.

“Now, while I'd never dare to doubt this dish is delicious,” Killian drawls and motions to the casserole, “it's surely much too abundant for two people.”

Emma smiles to herself, pleasantly surprised, while her mother cocks her head and narrows her eyes. “What are you saying, Killian?”

“Well, I suggest,” he nods his head towards the basement door, “I'll fetch a bottle of Merlot, and you set the table for us? Always assuming your little lad is taken care of.”

“Henry's with him,” Snow confirms and throws a quick look at her daughter to see if she's okay with this, but her smile tells her she is.

“Then it's settled,” Killian declares and turns to David. “I think we still have some berries in the freezing box–”

“Freezer,” David corrects automatically.

“Whatever,” Killian waves him off nonchalantly. “Maybe you can whip up your famous pancakes for dessert, mate?”

That was a devious move, of course, but his grin is disarming, and really, David has no excuse for being grumpy in the slightest way, and he knows it. Killian's sincerely welcoming invitation was unexpected, his compliment an obvious signal that for him, the family peace is still intact, and David's the last one to keep things awkward when there's basically no reason to.

So he shrugs off his leather jacket. “Sure, I'd love to.”

In the end, it's a pleasant family dinner; Emma and Killian recount the adventures of their sailing trip, while David and Snow fill them in about the latest shenanigans that have been going on in Storybrooke during their absence (not that there have been any of a more serious kind). The atmosphere is relaxed and familial, and David registers with appreciation that, unlike Emma, _Killian_ seems to have the appetite of a Romanian power lifter when it comes to pancakes.

Shortly after the dessert, they finish the last drop of wine, and Snow's eyes are especially bright when she murmurs something about _privacy_ and _pancakes_ on their way out.

Emma cleans up the kitchen with a flick of her wrist – normally, she refrains from that, but today she feels like she can't be bothered with washing dishes, and she feels the heaviness of the day settle in her limbs now. With her arm wrapped around Killian's waist, they climb the stairs.

“That was sweet of you,” she remarks, “to ask my parents to stay for dinner.”

Killian shrugs. “They meant no harm. And besides... how could we not?” He opens the bedroom door and lets her enter with a little tilt of his head, always the gentleman. “I mean, your mother made chicken parm for me,” he adds.

Emma turns around on her heel and crosses her arms. “For _you_?” she asks skeptically. “Isn't that a bit presumptuous?”

“It's not,” he replies in a determined tone and clicks the door shut. “Chicken parm is my favorite dish of hers,” he points out, “and she knows it.”

“Oh?” She frowns. “I'm not sure if I should be touched or slightly annoyed that my mom makes _your_ favorite dish, plus Dad and his pancakes.” She raises a teasing eyebrow at him. “They deserted to you with flying colors.”

“As you should be well aware of, love,” he tells her smoothly, “I tend to have that effect on people.”

She laughs and shakes her head, while he purses his lips into a smile and starts to unbutton his shirt. “You know what's the best thing about going on an adventure?” he asks after a short pause.

“What's that?”

“Coming home to people who missed you.” He shrugs off his shirt and tilts his head in an almost casual gesture. “I never knew the feeling.” Huffing a little laugh, he quickly adds, “Getting almost copped by your parents is a small price to pay.”

Emma who was just about to pull her t-shirt over her head lets her hands sink and scrutinizes him closely. In spite of his best effort to keep his voice nonchalant, the melancholy in his eyes hasn't escaped her, and once more she realizes how much of kindred spirits they really are. “Yeah, feels good to be missed, right?” she asks softly and steps into his personal space, putting both hands to his bare chest. “It's just a pity that we didn't get to enjoy that... relaxing bath.” She looks up at him from underneath her eyelashes.

“Ah, well,” he replies and rests his hand and hook against her waist, “I guess it will have to wait until next time.”

“Mhm. okay.” She nods and pulls her lower lip between her teeth as if she was contemplating something. “But what about your sore muscles... old man?”

He cocks his head. “They're fine, love, just fine.” His eyebrows rise high when he fixes his eyes on hers, the blue darkening. “And I believe that makes it twice today that you called me _old man_.”

Emma has to bite her lip to stop herself from grinning too broadly. “And that in spite of all your... _potential_. My bad.” Her eyes are glittering with mischief. “What are you gonna do about it?” she challenges.

“Well...” Killian sways his head and pretends to ponder her question, but then in a quick move dives down, wraps his arms around her still jeans-clad thighs and throws her over his shoulder, making her gasp in surprise. He announces, “I'll make you pay for it.” Emma squeals with delight and laughter as he dumps her on the bed and pins her down on the mattress with the warm weight of his body, a devilish spark in his eyes as he adds, _“Twice.”_

 


End file.
